Part 3 - The End of the Beginning

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Throughout my life I've known people who have gone to jail/done time in jail/should have gone to jail. The result of all this, I'm very good at Spades. Noone I know has been to prison though. Which is a good thing, of course. I know muggers who are now veterinarians. I know vandals who became A&R reps for very respectable record labels. I know drug dealers who now work on Wall Street.

The house, Norm's house, was a bastion for this element. People running from the law would take refuge there. People in need of a place to sleep would crash there. People looking for a quick burst of excitement would stop by. At one point or another, I was each of them.

But, I'm getting ahead of myself here. Let's back up then. Wind the spindle in reverse until life is a blur and we're sick with knowing, crying tears of indifference, salting the terrain with smirks and judgements. In a slow final spin we land ungracefully at an event. Perhaps the one event that could claim responsibility for this house to become more.

The toils of labor bound me but my friends promised to return. This would have been the third party I had been to, but fate is fickle.

As the house pulled into view, my friends noticed a squadron of police vehicles decorating the landscape. Good judgement dictated to continue on. They passed by several times but could not extract any more information.

At this point in time, the house was only peripheral in my life. Months ambled by before I ran into a familiar face at a concert. I didn't really know the guy but we recognized each other. He had been at the house the night everyone went to jail. In colorful suburban patois he detailed the event whose afterbirth I spent so much time in.

His first memory was of entering the house and being grabbed and thrown against the wall. A quick frisk found a fistful of dollars. In a curling explosive bark a voice demanded to know what he was coming to buy. At this point my new friend realized what was happening. Sneaking a glance he saw people cuffed and piles of cocaine, marijuana, LSD and whatever else laid out on the coffee table like a Hunter S Thompson smorgasborg. He was one of the few who escaped jail-time, since all he had was money.

Apparently the heroin junkies next door turned them in. The had been watched for weeks. Everyone involved was arrested. George the pitbull was hit by a car. I lost touch with everyone. Like I said before, this was just the end of the beginning.